By Kyle, Chase, and Sean

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Facts:

• Born at Portland, Maine

• Family very involved in American Revolution and New England life and politics.
• Named after his mothers brother, Henry Wadsworth.
• Longfellow's, respected citizens of Portland, Maine, when skirmishes with Britain begain.
• Second wife died by clothes cathing on fire in 1861.
• Died at Cambridge, Massachusetts.
• Studied law in his fathers office for a short time.
• His fellow students and teachers knew that poetry was his profession.
• His character is reflected mostly in his books.

• He was born on February 27 1807 and died on March 24 1882.
• His parents names were Steven Longfellow and Zilpa Wadsworth Longfellow.
• In 1831 he had gotten married to Mary Storer Potter.
• In November 1835 his wife died from a miscarriage.
• He had seven other brothers and sisters.
• He published his first poem at 13 and it was named “HENRY”, it was published in the “Portland Gazette”.
• Henry started collage at 14.
• He traveled to France Italy Spain and Germany and learned their languages.
• He remarried to a women named Mary Storer Potter.

A good sorce to find alot of information on Henry is http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/henry_wadsworth_longfellow/biography
You should find the pics and ill find the info. Try to find historical pictures of Henry.
If you are looking for his biography try
http://www.notablebiographies.com/Lo-Ma/Longfellow-Henry-Wadsworth.html.

Pictures:

{Henry Wadsworth Longfellow}

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The photostory:

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The poem:

The Village Blacksmith

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

www.ydalir.co.uk/.../elvaston/blacksmith.htm
http://www.treehugger.com/files/2009/02/chestnut-tree.php
www.clipartreview.com/search_term_pages/guy.html
http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/top-stories/2008/08/02/wonder-of-lion-s-reunion-with-men-who-raised-him-is-internet-hit-115875-20681492/
http://scienceblogs.com/startswithabang/2009/04/pining_for_the_sun.php
www.stanford.edu/.../Scenery/CampsBaySunset.JPG